


L'appel du vide

by jouissant



Series: L'appel du vide [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:10:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Look,” Jim says. “It’s like I was saying the other day. I think this...uncertainty is kind of a universal constant.” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“It is a paradox,” says Spock. “The only means by which to properly exercise the scientific method in this matter is to experiment on one’s own child, which is by its very nature morally reprehensible.”</i>
</p><p> In which Jim pops another sort of question, and Spock needs time to think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'appel du vide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [museaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/gifts).
  * Inspired by [What We Don't Say (or The Epic Wedding of Jim and Spock)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/978486) by [museaway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway). 



> So museattack's story is probably the sweetest fic I've ever read and made me want to read this story badly enough to write it. Thanks, muse, for the lovely story and for being the best partner in crime a lonely fanfic writer could ask for.

Jim gets some of his best ideas when _in flagrante_ , so it’s pretty appropriate that this particular idea germinates when he’s rocking into Spock on their bed, eyes heavy-lidded, two of Spock’s fingers shoved into his mouth. Jim keeps getting distracted and forgetting about them, periodically rediscovering their presence and laving them apologetically, which makes Spock arch his back and whine. Which is literally the best sound Jim’s ever heard, except maybe the sound of the ship’s moorings disengaging from space dock, or the tinny hum of the transporter beams coalescing around them in a particularly sticky situation planetside. But no, no, this is better. This has to be better, because Spock only makes this noise when he’s close, close enough that he can probably time it right down to the nanosecond. Ten, nine, eight...

And fuck, Jim loves him. What he ever managed to do right enough in his life that this stubborn, stoic, impossible, amazing Vulcan would agree to hitch his wagon to this particular fucked up star, Jim will never know and will probably always be afraid to ask. Which is why Jim slides Spock’s fingers gently out of his mouth, puts his lips to Spock’s ear and angles his next thrust just right and---

“Let’s make a baby.” 

Which is possibly a little unfair, because Spock really is right there, so much so that as soon as the words leave Jim’s mouth Spock comes all over the place between them. He makes this awful sound Jim’s never heard before, halfway between moaning and choking. His head casts about side to side on the pillow, his eyes screwed shut, and Jim thinks for a second that maybe he broke him. 

“Is it-- _ah_ \--is it too late to inform you that that is a biological impossibility? I fear we may have married under false pretenses.” 

Nope, not broken. 

Jim laughs at that, but then Spock kind of turns back to him cautiously and bites his lower lip, not in the hot way but in the “I know it’s our anniversary but I’m running an experiment that has to be monitored 24/7” way. 

“What’s wrong? You don’t want to?” 

Jim’s still half-laughing, breezy, and he thinks there’s still a chance he can play this off. But Spock keeps biting his lip and doesn’t say anything, and the gut-punch feeling this engenders is so surprising and, well, gut-punchy that Jim’s erection dies a swift death. Too confused to mourn, he slides carefully out of Spock and rolls off onto his back, wrinkling his nose at the feel of the cooling mess all over his belly. He can feel the mattress shift as Spock sits up, and then he can feel Spock’s eyes on him. 

“Jim?” 

He opens his mouth to speak and what the fuck, he has to swallow around a fucking lump in his throat, and when he manages it his voice feels all thick and teary. “Yeah?” he says. 

“Are you all right?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Spock sighs. “Do you wish to discuss it?” 

“Eurgh, this is kind of gross. Let me--” He sits up and clambers awkwardly over Spock out of the bed, going into the fresher to retrieve a damp cloth. Sufficiently restored, he leans heavily on the counter and stares at himself in the mirror.

“What the fuck just happened?” he mutters. 

“Pardon?” Spock calls from the other room. 

Damn Vulcan hearing, Jim thinks. Just, damn it all to hell. He makes a strangled noise and goes back out into the bedroom to face the music. Spock is still sitting up in bed, hugging his knees to his chest and looking guilty. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Jim asks.

Spock just pats the bed next to him, and Jim pads obediently over to curl up and rest his head on Spock’s shoulder. He feels at least 30% better already. “Sorry,” he murmurs. 

He feels rather than sees Spock shake his head. “No apology is necessary. In fact, it is I who should apologize to you.” 

“No, really,” Jim says. “That was a dick move, springing something like that on you in the heat of the moment.” 

“Please do not resume singing that song,” Spock says softly. “Last time I contemplated severing our bond to, as you put it, get it out of my head.” 

Jim laughs, taking Spock’s hand in his and turning it over, tracing the life line on his palm. “Don’t even joke about that,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “Seriously, though, I’m sorry.” 

Spock shifts, which makes Jim lift his head. Spock crooks a finger under Jim’s chin and tilts his face up to kiss. It makes Jim feel a little like a fairy tale maiden, but he goes with it. Spock gives him a searching look, as if he’s scanning Jim’s face for something. 

“What?” Jim says. 

Spock shakes his head slightly. “Do you wish it?” 

_Wish what?_ Jim wants to say, but he doesn’t. “I don’t know,” he says instead. “I think...I think maybe I do. But I don’t know if I did, like, an hour ago. It just kind of came out and then...then there it was.” He lets his head fall into his hands, turning to one side and peering between his fingers at Spock. “Fuck. Did I just screw things up big time? Because I think you should probably just tell me.” 

“You did not,” Spock says. 

“Oh. Well, good,” Jim says, sighing out a breath. 

“I was merely...taken aback at your declaration.” 

“It was more of a suggestion, really.” 

“A performative utterance, perhaps,” Spock says cryptically. 

“Taken aback,” Jim says. “Not exactly positive.” 

Spock makes a face that Jim has come to consider his version of a shrug. “I did not intend either a positive or negative connotation. Rather, I experienced surprise, as you have not previously mentioned a desire to procreate, with me or any previous partner.” The tips of his ears go a little green at this, which Jim notes with a small measure of satisfaction. 

“Like I said, it just kind of came out.” He eases down onto his back in the bed, pulling Spock down with one arm and tugging the comforter up over them both with the other. This conversation clearly requires medicinal snuggling, he thinks. He should get Bones to write scripts for it. 

“So, what,” he says when they’re comfortably ensconced. “You don’t want to?” 

“I did not say that,” Spock says quietly.

“Have you...have you thought about it?” Jim tucks his chin against his chest so the comforter covers his nose and mouth, breathing into the humid little hollow the cotton makes around his face. 

Beside him, he hears Spock swallow. “I have, at times, found myself picturing certain aspects of childrearing,” he says. 

“With me, or--?” 

“With you.” 

“Oh,” Jim says. His face gets hot, and all of a sudden his mouth gets that weird heavy floppy feeling he gets when he’s about to--

“Jim? Are you--”

Jim rolls over on top of Spock, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffing so hard his sinuses twinge and he can smell iron and salt. He presses up onto his hands so they’re eye to eye and kisses Spock lightly on the nose. “Nope,” he says. “I’m great. So tell me more about what you’ve thought about.” 

Spock gives him a look that says he’s one hundred percent aware of Jim’s deflection tactics and is choosing to ignore them for his sake, for which Jim is immeasurably grateful. But then Spock’s mouth goes kind of soft and he does the not-smile thing and looks down, looks away. 

“My thoughts have no basis in biological reality,” Spock says as if this is some kind of caveat. “However, on occasion, I have speculated on the potential phenotypes our hypothetical child might possess.” 

Jim leans in and rests his forehead against Spock’s. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, she’s got to have your ears, right?” 

“She?” 

“Or he, whatever,” Jim says. “Point is, ears are a must or I’m throwing him back.” 

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I was unaware of your attachment to my ears, given your history of referring to them pejoratively.” 

“That was once, okay, and there were extenuating circumstances. I love your ears, are you kidding me?” He tilts his head to demonstrate, kissing the tip of the right. 

Spock hums appreciatively. “You are attempting to distract me,” he says. 

“I am not. Now, tell me more about your adorable fantasies of our future children. Child. I guess we should start with one and go from there.” 

Spock shifts, and there it is again, that guilty almost-wince. 

“What is it?” 

Spock furrows his brow, appearing to consider his words carefully. “Do you not experience some measure of trepidation at the prospect of bearing sole responsibility for another being for the better part of twenty years at minimum?” 

Jim shrugs. “Well, not _sole_ responsibility. That’s what I’ve got my trusty co-parent for.” He elbows Spock gently. “It’s kind of nerve-wracking, sure. But I think it freaks everyone out beforehand.” 

Spock looks unconvinced. “‘Everyone’ is not faced with the prospect of raising a child in an interspecies relationship on board an active-duty Starfleet vessel,” he says.

“You say that like it’s such a bad thing.” Jim keeps his tone light, but something about Spock’s words irritates him, gives him that sunburn itch that usually ends with him picking a fight and everyone going to bed pissed, which is an improvement over the way things used to turn out before Starfleet, before Spock, before Jim grew up in spite of himself. 

“Aside from a host of concerns related to Vulcan cultural identity which I have not yet fully considered, the child’s physical safety--”

Jim kicks off the comforter and stumbles out of bed again. He rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m going to shower,” he says. “I can’t talk about this right now. And before you say so, yes, I know was the one who brought it up, but I guess I didn’t realize you were going to be all ready with a stellar counterargument or whatever.” 

Spock slides over and gets up himself, about a thousand times more gracefully than Jim just did. He steps close, and Jim wants more than anything to flinch away, to snap and slink off into the fresher like a wounded animal. He forces himself to stay still instead, letting Spock reach for him and pull their bodies flush. 

“My purpose was not argument,” Spock says evenly. “I merely wished to request a...research period, before we arrive at a firm decision on this matter.” 

Jim listens to the soft rhythm of Spock’s breathing, a gentle ebb and flow. Their bond is still reasonably new by Vulcan standards, but if he focuses he can feel an encouraging calm flowing across it. He sighs. Research period. Yeah, Jim can get behind that. Knowing all there is to know about everything always seems to put Spock in a better frame of mind, so either way it’s probably a win. 

“Okay,” Jim says.

Spock leans in and kisses him lightly on the corner of the mouth. “Do you still wish to shower?” 

Jim snakes his hand tighter around Spock’s waist and grinds them together just a little bit. He’s suddenly feeling hopeful again, and with hope comes a rekindled awareness of what exactly he missed out on earlier. 

“Only if you’re coming too,” he says.

***

Over the next several days, Jim tries not to be disturbed at the influx of reading material that shows up on Spock’s personal PADD. Not that Jim’s snooping; Spock makes no secret of his brand new electronic copies of _Interspecies Parenting and You_ and the rather imposing section of the ‘Fleet regulations manual dealing with dependents. There’s also a slim paper volume with a gold-stamped title Spock translates as _Surak in the Nursery: Parenting with Logic_. Jim eyes this last with particular suspicion.

He’s cheered a little one night when he sees Spock hunched over the book, his mouth contorted into an unmistakable frown, but when he asks Spock what the matter is he says only that he’s ‘experiencing a difference of opinion,’ and sounds so perturbed that Jim vows not to press further. 

Jim isn’t counting his mid-coital outburst as a mistake quite yet, but it’s definitely thrown several aspects of his life into sharp relief. As he goes about his business starship captaining he can’t help but think about how things might be the same or different or more amazing or abjectly horrible with the addition of a (pointy-eared, always pointy-eared) kid. 

He seems to be focusing on the “abjectly horrible” side of the spectrum at this particular point in time, which is why he’s leaning up against a bulkhead in a cold sweat when Chapel rounds the corner at exactly the wrong moment and runs smack into him. 

“Are you all right, Captain?” 

“Fine, fine. Just--”

“Having a panic attack in the Deck Three corridor?” 

Jim groans, and slides a little further down the wall. “Something like that.” 

She brandishes her tricorder, and Jim leaps to attention and starts off down the hall before a single bit’s worth of data can manage to work its way into the Medical database, in front of the last pair of eyes Jim wants getting so much as a glimpse of any of this.

***

Bones materializes out of nowhere in the mess, and Jim doesn’t even have a chance to thank his lucky stars he’s eating something marginally healthy for a change. Spock was quoting something out of one of his parenting books about the importance of a balanced diet that made it quite clear Jim was expected to clean up his act once a hypothetical child was on the scene. He figures it can’t hurt to get an early start, maybe ease in slowly. Plus, Spock gives him this look whenever he sees Jim plunk down a plate of salad that makes shoveling tasteless roughage into his face totally, totally worth it.

“Something on your mind, Jim-boy?” 

Jim jumps at the sound, clutching his tray in a largely futile effort to prevent his bowl of vegetable soup from sloshing every which way. The soup is scalding. Some of it splatters on Jim’s hand, which he can’t move lest he drop the tray. So he just grits his teeth and turns to Bones, who’s looking way too pleased with himself. 

“Nope,” he says, grimacing at the pain.

Bones just grins wider. “That’s not what a little bird told me,” he says. 

Jim rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Bones, what ever happened to patient privilege?” 

“You’re my patient, not Christine’s. She said she was professionally concerned.” 

“Concerned my ass. More like concerned with stirring shit up. She’s been working with you way too long.” 

“Funny, I was just about to come see you about promoting her.” Yeah, Bones is looking way, way, _way_ too pleased with himself. Something is definitely up, and Jim’s getting a sinking feeling he might have someone other than Chapel to blame for it. 

He leans in closer to Bones, gripping the tray tightly. “You haven’t been talking to Spock, by any chance, have you?” 

Bones is quiet for just a beat too long, and Jim knows. “Goddammit,” he says. “Seriously?” 

This is probably the last thing Jim would ever expect Spock to confide to Bones. Uhura, maybe, but even that seems like a long shot. It seems kind of shitty to bring up possible baby-having with your ex, no matter how amicable your breakup was. Spock showing up in sickbay for a heart-to-heart is weird enough, but even weirder is the look on Bones’ face--because he’s not hassling Jim any more, he’s not bitching about hobgoblins or Vulcan voodoo. He’s...just kind of staring at Jim, looking sappy as hell, and--  


“Are you _tearing up_?” 

“I, unlike you and your emotionally constipated better half, am completely in touch with my feelings,” Bones says archly. He starts patting himself down as if looking for something. “I usually have a vitamin hypo on me for just such an occasion, but--”

“I’m not _pregnant!_ ” Jim says, louder than he means to. This earns him a few interested looks and ill-concealed snickers. He can feel himself starting to blush, so he steps closer to Bones, turning his back on the mess. 

Bones gives him a look of deep, insincere sympathy. “You feel like eating dinner in my office, Mama?” 

“I hate you. You are absolutely fired.” 

Bones pats him on the shoulder and swans out of the mess hall. “We’ll see who’s firing whom the first time little Jimmy’s running a fever and you and Spock are scared out of your minds.” 

“Oh, that’s low, Bones, even for you. Using my imaginary child’s health as a pawn in your little game? What ever happened to ‘do no harm?’” 

Back in sickbay, Bones wastes no time locating his precious vitamin hypo, but he does sweeten the deal by pouring Jim a couple fingers of the good stuff. Jim rubs his neck and drinks his bourbon, compulsively raising and lowering Bones’ desk chair as he does so. 

“Will you stop that? It’s making me seasick.” Bones leans back and puts his feet on the desk, which he only does when he’s settling in for a nice long benevolent tirade. Jim decides to head him off at the pass. Besides, he’s pretty sure the conversation would’ve worked its way back around at some point anyway. 

“Do you think I’d be a good dad?” 

Bones chokes on his drink, which...isn’t exactly making Jim feel great about his question. He swallows, putting his tumbler down on the desk and running a finger over the cut glass thoughtfully. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Wait, seriously? Because I expected a little more good-natured verbal harassment first.” 

Bones shrugs. “I had my fun with Spock earlier. Oh, don’t worry,” he says, waving off Jim’s look of alarm. “I only teased him about a litter of baby hobgoblins once or twice. Maybe three times. Maybe put the fear of God into him a little bit. You know, some of those stories your mother told me when we went to Iowa for Thanksgiving that time--”

“We agreed never to speak of that again,” Jim hisses. “There was way, way too much alcohol involved, on everyone’s parts.” 

Bones claps a hand over his heart. “I personally consider it an honor and a privilege to know such intimate details of my best friend’s myriad issues with toilet training. I thought it only fair that Spock know what he might be in for if your little Spocklet takes after the old man. Well, the old _hu_ man, that is.” 

Jim buries his face in his hands. “I’m never speaking to you again.” 

Bones is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks again, his voice is a little rough, but Jim doesn’t look up. And it’s probably just the bourbon, anyway. 

“You’re going to be a great father, kid.” 

Definitely just the bourbon.

***

By the following Wednesday, Spock has remained less than forthcoming on what, if any, revelations he’s had regarding the whole kid situation. In fact, Jim’s beginning to think Spock is avoiding him. Not in a bad way, exactly--he’s still perfectly affectionate, for Spock-normal values of “affectionate,” anyway. But he doesn’t hang back and wait for Jim after shift the way he usually does, just jets out of there and makes for the turbolift. When Jim finally tracks him down, he’s generally got his nose stuck in a batch of paperwork or, later in the evening, the weird Vulcan parenting manual. If Spock really did have such a difference of opinion with it, Jim’s not sure why he’s still reading. Maybe it’s some kind of know thine enemy thing.

They’re sitting in their quarters, a comfortable hush hanging over the room. Spock is reading as usual, while Jim has abandoned work for the evening and is sprawled on the bed, paging through an old collection of Murakami short stories. Abruptly, he catches a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, an arc that culminates in a resounding thud against the opposite wall. 

He looks up to find _Parenting With Logic_ in a heap on the floor, and Spock sitting up ramrod-straight in his chair looking vaguely horrified. 

Jim looks from the book to Spock and back again. “What did you just do? Wait a second, is this _pon farr_? Because I thought I was supposed to get more of a heads-up--”

“I cannot continue to read this book,” Spock says. “Nor any of the others.”  
“Well, chucking it across the room was a good start, then,” Jim says. “What’s going on?” 

Spock gets to his feet and begins to pace, arms behind his back. He gives the book a wide berth, like it’s something unsavory at best and potentially dangerous at worst. “I am a scientist,” he says. “As such, when uncertain of my answer to your proposition, I sought certainty via additional information in what I believed to be relevant texts. Despite the fact that I have consulted multiple authoritative sources, including leading experts in the fields of both human and Vulcan developmental psychology, I believe I now feel less certain of my ability to parent than I did when last we spoke.” 

Jim sees shades of his clammy bulkhead swoonfest in Spock now, and it would almost be funny if it wasn’t so horrifying. “You’re freaking out,” he says unhelpfully. “You need to sit down and breathe.” 

“Vulcans do not freak out,” Spock says, but he sits down on the bed anyway, pale and tight-lipped. 

Jim scoots over next to him, taking his hand carefully. “Look,” he says. “It’s like I was saying the other day. I think this...uncertainty is kind of a universal constant.” 

“It is a paradox,” says Spock. “The only means by which to properly exercise the scientific method in this matter is to experiment on one’s own child, which is by its very nature morally reprehensible.” 

“Um, yes. Unfortunately, there’s not really a way around that.” Jim decides that it’s probably not in his best interests to point out the glaringly obvious; he feels pretty good about declaring Spock a success, but makes no claim about himself. He tries a different tack instead. 

“I heard you paid a visit to sickbay last week,” he says quietly. Spock stills, his hand stiffening in Jim’s. 

“It’s okay,” Jim says hurriedly. “I don’t mind that you told Bones. I’m a little bit concerned about what he may have told you--”

“He told me you once voided in one of your mother’s shoes as an act of defiance while learning appropriate toileting procedures,” Spock supplies. 

“Case in point,” Jim says, face hot. _“Anyway,_ I talked to him too, a couple of days ago. He said...Spock, he thinks we’re going to be okay at this. Better than okay, even; he thinks we’re going to be good at it.” 

Spock looks askance at Jim. 

“I know,” Jim says. “I thought he was hammered too.” 

They’re both quiet for a long time, sitting there shoulder to shoulder on the bed. Spock exhales, and Jim feels a strange sensation rippling over the bond, a lightening or a settling almost. 

“A tendency to leap without looking,” Spock says presently, voice stilted like he’s quoting something. “Is that not a quality Admiral Pike admired in you on your initial meeting?” 

“That’s what he said. Although I should point out that I was drunk and bleeding at the time, and way too into this little ship-shaped salt shaker, so I’m not sure you should set too much store by his judgement.” 

“On the contrary, I valued his judgement above most others,” Spock says softly. He looks up at Jim, squeezes his hand gently. “I believe we find ourselves on a precipice,” Spock says. “May I follow your lead?” 

Jim grins. “Hang on, baby,” he says. “I’ll teach you everything I know.”


End file.
